


proxemics and the thaumaturge

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Kissing, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the following prompt: "Norrell is growing increasingly, uncomfortably aware of his servant's disregard for personal space and tendency to loom. It is most aggravatingly distracting."</p><p>Or: in which Mr Norrell pines, and Childermass takes action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	proxemics and the thaumaturge

**Author's Note:**

> "Book, kink memes are meant to be anonymous," you say? I know, and I wasn't going to post this, I'm too embarrassed, but I actually came up with a real title and I couldn't waste that. 
> 
> This had to be in Norrell's head entirely, so I feel as though he comes off to the reader as, well, less of a jerk than he's actually being at any given time. It's just that he has very little self-awareness, and from his perspective, almost everything he does seems quite justified. It's the first time I've written a character like this from their own perspective, so I'm still working on it? Anyway, so I hope this isn't too fluffy or he doesn't seem too watered-down. Let me know, I guess.
> 
> I've also just realized that my author's comments are frequently incredibly unprofessional but I don't care. I've fallen down another rabbit hole, please send help. I'm already working on another fill for the kink meme with a different pairing. I'm involved in two other Childerell fics on the side, one a collab. -puts hands over eyes-
> 
> Anyway.... Not beta'd, let me know of any typos or mistakes. Also, shoutout to Moll/ofshoesandships because, while she has no direct responsibility for this piece of work, indirectly it is ALL HER FAULT.

Childermass was a problem.

Not in the sense that this word usually had for Mr Norrell. He was not an obstacle to Mr Norrell's studies, or a rival-magician appearing to threaten his superiority, nor a thief come to steal his books. He was not even a nuisance in the less specific sense. Mr Norrell generally found his company less odious than he did of most other people, and that was a rare thing.

Indeed, that was, in a large part, the problem.

Mr Norrell well knew even as a young man that his desires, such as they were, were not appropriate for a gentleman, nor for any respectable person. Respectability was important, and for this reason and many others, he had never pursued them, nor thought of doing so since he had taken up magic. Such a grand field of study was more than enough to occupy a man's time and to keep his head free from inconvenient thoughts.

Everything was perfectly under control.

Unfortunately, Childermass had sauntered into his house with his leaning gait and his tendency to speak his mind, and Mr Norrell had found him invaluable. He was competent. He was knowledgeable in the ways of the world, which Mr Norell knew little about. He was intelligent, perhaps more so than a servant ought to be, but as he often used this for Mr Norrell's ends, it was a trait he needed. In short, Mr Norrell could not do without him.

However, his previously mentioned perfect control over his thoughts was slipping somewhat. There had been a number of episodes...

-

Mr Norrell leaned over his silver basin, frowning with concentration. The spell was meant to be one for shewing a vision of one's enemy, and yet all he could manage to see was a bleak expanse of Yorkshire moor. He was not certain where he had gone wrong.

There was the basin and the clean water, fetched by Davey from a nearby stream, and the incantation, which Mr Norell was quite sure was correctly reconstructed; it was somewhat similar to the spell for locating a person, and so it had not been complicated. He sighed, and rubbed his forehead, feeling a headach growing behind his eyes.

"Trouble, sir?" came Childermass's voice from close behind him. Mr Norell flinched.

"The spell is not working," he said.

"I am sorry to hear that," said Childermass. His voice was low and rough and nearer to Mr Norrell's ear than it should have been. Mr Norell's breath hitched slightly at the sound of it, though he was not sure why.

"I believe it may be an issue with the name parameters," said Mr Norell.

"Hmm. You fear that you have named your enemy wrongly?" The voice sounded even closer now. That surely must have been an illusion. Childermass had not moved, Mr Norrell was sure. How had he never noticed Childermass's voice before? Or had he, and he has simply not acknowledged it?

He continued, a moment later than was appropriate for the pace of the conversation, "I did not name him at all. That is the trouble. Spells that seek out an unknown person require precise wording. The lack of name makes them difficult to aim." 

"Hmm." 

Mr Norrell turned and found looking into Childermass's face or, to be more precise, Childermass's chest, for there was a considerable difference of height between them.

He cleared his throat. His gazed drifted up to Childermass's dark eyes, and then hastily jerked away towards the walls, the books, anything else. Was his face warm? He feared it would be soon, if it was not, and to blush would be dreadfully undignified. 

"I shall require the Belasis, if you please," he said, blinking and shaking his head minutely. "I believe he has something to say on the subject of spells using titles rather than names."

Childermass nodded and moved away. Mr Norrell breathed a sigh of relief.

-

"It is unacceptable behavior!"

"You cannot just dismiss every servant you do not like," Childermass said, raising an eyebrow.

"I do not see why not. It has worked thus far." 

"And you are fast running out of servants to hire," countered Childermass. "It was only one supper."

"She burnt it beyond repair and my meal was delayed for hours!"

"I have known you to delay your meal for hours of your own accord, sir," said Childermass, "while you are researching."

"After which I eat a good supper in order to make up for the lack. That is why it is important that, when I do take my meals on time, they _be_ on time, Childermass!"

"Susan is a competent cook in most respects, the best we've had since you sacked Mrs Fairview, and if you dismiss her you will have no-one to prepare your supper at all." Childermass loomed over Mr Norrell's chair in a most intimidating way. "And I, for one, would resign rather than eat Lucas's cooking. _Sir._ "

With a start Mr Norrell realized that Childermass's hands were on the arms of the chair Mr Norrell sat in, so near to Mr Norrell's that their limbs were nearly touching. Childermass's face was almost as close, and, quite suddenly and quite ridiculously, Mr Norrell was struck with the thoroughly illogical notion of kissing him.

Now distracted entirely from his complaint, he could see it clearly, more clearly than the visions he had been trying so hard to produce. He would only have to lean forward slightly to bring their lips in contact and feel Childermass's skin against his. The last effort would bring it into being. He could nearly taste it. 

Mr Norrell swallowed. He told himself that he must stop this imagining, but the vision would not be banished. It would only be a very little distance; even Mr Norrell, who was not courageous, could find the will to bring his face a few inches closer to another person's. If given time. 

But Childermass, taking Mr Norrell's silence for defeat, stood up and smiled slightly.

"I will tell her to take more care in the future," he said, and strode out of the room, leaving Mr Norrell flustered, thoroughly uncomfortable, and red-faced from anger and something else he did not wish to name.

-

 

Mr Norrell had finally managed to settle into his studies after a difficult morning. His breakfast had been all wrong; his clothes had felt itchy; in short, he had been out of sorts. But he had set himself at his desk with Pevensey, examining a diagram which he thought might be useful in a spell of dissolution he was preparing. 

Childermass was in a chair by the fire. He often lingered here to do his work, or more rarely, read, when he had no business outside the house, or when Mr Norrell was likely to need him. Today was such a case; Mr Norrell was anticipating the attempt at the spell to be difficult, and wanted someone to fetch him things he might need and, though he would not allow it, someone to whom he might complain.

Unusually, however, Childermass was not working on any papers; instead, he was reading a book. This he was not supposed to do, but Mr Norrell overlooked it on occasion. After all, Childermass was no magician and he was as loyal to Mr Norrell himself as anyone had ever been. If anyone could be trusted with the books, it was Childermass.

Contemplating this, Mr Norrell looked over at the man himself. He was sitting with his legs stretched out before the fire, and wearing an expression of interest and concentration that was far more open than most of his usual ones. His face, lit half by the fire and half by the morning light streaming in through one of the windows, looked carved from stone. It was betrayed as flesh only by the occasional blink or twist of an eyebrow when Chidlermass happened upon a passage which surprized him.

Mr Norrell returned to the diagram. But after a moment his gaze drifted back up to Childermass's legs, which looked most elegant in their plain black stockings. He had never had occasion to notice before, but they were long and lean, a fact emphasized by Childermass's position. One's mind will wander occasionally when one is trying to concentrate on something complicated, even a mind as dedicated as Mr Norrell's, and Mr Norrell found himself wondering what Childermass's legs looked like under his stockings. Were they muscular from horse-riding? Did he have scars?

Mr Norrell's imagination was not vivid, but it served him too well on this occasion. It took Childermass not only out of his stockings, but out of his coat and waistcoat, into shirtsleeves and breeches, as a man might be who was getting undressed for bed. Would he look less imposing, without his waistcoat? Thinner, or stronger? 

Mr Norrell realized with a start that not only was his staring, the content of his thoughts was becoming most inappropriate. His face reddened, as seemed to happen a good deal lately, and he hastily tore his eyes from Childermass back to his book.

This was most dissatisfactory. 

-

The calamity of the year had occurred. Someone had broken into Hurtfew.

The thief had got away with nothing, and the magical protections on the house had prevented any serious damage. Indeed, the unfortunate individual who had chose this isolated house for his target had likely received more than he had bargained for, as Mr Norrell had put some quite impressive warding spells up. They had not been quite enough to stop the break-in, but they had left the thief with some quite unpleasantly bright red blisters upon his hands and face, which would last for a whole fortnight. It was the sort of magic Mr Norrell would generally disapprove of, but considered it respectable enough for the protection of his books and his person.

All the same, despite these comforts, he was all in pieces just at the moment. The simple notion that some uncouth and strange person had got so near to himself and his library made him feel terribly unsafe. His hands were trembling as he sat in his favorite chair in the library, trying to breathe evenly. The fire was unlit, the grate cold. The chilly air of the room added another layer to his shivers.

Childermass came in, and regarded Mr Norrell. "I reported the theft to the constabulary. They'll be looking for a man with boils, and if hasn't left the county by now they'll probably catch him."

Mr Norrell simply sat and shook. Childermass looked at him with something Mr Norrell thought might be pity, and began to build a fire, hands working steadily. The sound of wood and coal scraping and paper rustling felt like ice drawn along his nerves, but he said nothing, for he knew the fire would be worth the discomfort. 

The fire was soon burning, and so Childermass rose to his feet and approached Mr Norrell's chair. He drew his own chair close, and sat down.

"You have nothing more to fear, sir," he said, leaning close in and speaking softly. "You are safe."

Mr Norrell shuddered. His physical reaction was easing now in the light of the fire, which was so warm and comforting, but he still felt disquieted and unhappy. 

"My sanctuary has been upset," he said. "It is most...disturbing."

"Are you afraid it will happen again? You should not be. Word of the curse will get out, and be exaggerated. That will keep most of the rabble away. As for the rest, you have your protections, and you have me."

Mr Norrell looked up. Childermass had laid his hand upon the arm of Mr Norrell's chair, as if to calm him. It was a strong hand with long fingers, rough and used to work, and Mr Norrell wished to himself that he could reach out and touch it. He did not, in ordinary circumstances, enjoy touching or being touched, but he felt that he might make an exception given the trying circumstances. It would be warm, and his hands were very cold indeed.

Unfortunately, it would not be within the bounds of propriety. Mr Norrell thought, with the sort of despair a shock can induce, that very little he wanted anymore when it came to Childermass was within the bounds of propriety, and it had to stop.

But as he had no idea how to make it do so, he simply nodded. 

"You are right."

-

It was becoming untenable. Mr Norrell was not sure what to do. He could not sack Childermass; as previously established, he could not do without him. Before Childermass, Mr Norrell had not known what a vital thing a man-of-business was, but how that he had one he felt he simply could not bear to give him up. Who would go and fetch books from various parts of England for him while he sat, comfortable, in his library? Who would he ask for advice about the world? Who, if it came to that, would shoo spiders out of the room without laughing?  
Mr Norrell had no-one else.

No, Childermass must stay, but Mr Norrell did not see how he could. The knowledge of Childermass's presence behind him in the library, the sound of his voice, these things were becoming a torment. It was not that they were so much stronger than a man might feel ordinarily; but he had not felt any such longings in many years, and to suddenly find them within himself for Childermass of all people was a dreadful experience. He wished heartily that he had never awoken to them.

With a very uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, he went to the library for the day. Perhaps a nice long spell with his books would put the matter out of his mind (though many previous attempts had not been encouraging).

Today was worse than ever. Mr Norrell's vision kept sliding back towards Childermass, settled at his desk and working on a piece of business Mr Norrell could not see. At his hands scratching away with the quill pen, at his hair falling loose from its knot into his face, at the flickering expressions that crossed his mouth.

On one of Mr Norrell's illicit glances, Childermass looked up and caught his eye, smiling in his faintly sardonic way. Mr Norrell flinched and looked back down to his book with a feeling of shame and alarm. It was as he had thought before; this sort of thing only caused trouble.

But he found himself drawn back towards Childermass yet again. Mr Norrell could send him away, and indeed had done so many times before when he needed privacy for some spell, but he had a horrible feeling it would not help. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he put his book down and began to clean his spectacles.

"Is there a problem, sir?" inquired Childermass, looking up.

"No. Er, not as such," Mr Norrell said. "Never mind. It is nothing you can help me with."

"Are you quite sure about that, sir?"

"Entirely."

Childermass looked at him with an expression Mr Norrell could not interpret. Then he marked his place in his work, set aside his pen, and stood up. He sauntered over to Mr Norrell's table and sat down on the chair beside him.

"What are you doing?" asked Mr Norrell sharply. He tried to look disapproving, but his stomach was even queerer and more uncomfortable than it had been, with a sort of anticipatory nervous energy he had never felt before. His throat felt tight.

"There is something I would wish of you."

"What? What is that?"

"Speak your feelings."

Norrell spluttered. "I b-beg your pardon?"

"Did you think that I would not notice the way you look at me, sir? Credit me with some wits."

Mr Norrell, who felt that he had been very subtle indeed, opened his mouth to make an indignant reply. But he was so surprized that all he could do was goggle.

Childermass leaned forward, their noses just touching, lips closer even than the day in the study. He was so very near that Mr Norrell could feel his breath like a ghost upon his skin. "I knew, sir, and I waited for you to speak. I thought you might prefer it so. But I have grown impatient with waiting. Speak your feelings." 

He pressed his mouth to Mr Norrell's.

Mr Norrell found his voice at last, though only enough to utter a muffled squeak of shock and confusion. There were a dozen reasons why he should have pushed Childermass away, and a dozen more why he should ask him to leave after he had done so. This was foolish. Involvement with servants only led to household disarray and lack of order. Invovlment with _anyone_ led only to disappointment and pain.

It was, however, true that Childermass was no ordinary servant, and that he would probably handle any feelings that might develop far better than a footman or maid, that his expectations were likely quite different from anyone else's, and that, oh! God, he was now worrying at Mr Norrell's lip with his teeth. Had anyone asked Mr Norrell whether the sensation would be pleasant, he should have guessed it would not, but he would have been wrong. 

Childermass pulled back, his eyes full of challenges. He was smiling his crooked half-smile, and Mr Norrell was not sure if it was genuine or in mockery. He never could tell, with Childermass.

"Well, sir," he said. "Will you speak?"

Mr Norrell only kissed him again. To speak on this subject would require too much of him, for he knew not what the word would be. "I cannot," he said, pulling back a bare fraction to whisper against his lips. His eyes were tight shut. "You know. You understand. I cannot."

Childermass responded with another kiss of his own, lingering and patient. "Yes. I do understand. Only tell me this. Would you have me stay? Here, like this?"

Mr Norrell thought of the many reasons why he should say no. There was propriety, and respectability, and what his father would have said, and of the fact that, no matter how secret they kept whatever they built, it would always be a danger to them. He thought that, perhaps, they could put this incident behind them, and act as though it had not happened. That would, in fact, be the wisest course of action.

He did not know why, but what he said was this:

"Yes."


End file.
